A little doll came and lit up the house. The entire household seemed to float in a flood of joy. Dreams cascaded down from father’s eyes. He couldn’t bear to be away from her for even a moment. Because she looked just like a doll, everyone called her Putol. Every day, father would call his beloved only daughter by new pet names. He would spend all his time absorbed in his little golden doll. Mother would say, “When she grows up, you’ll have to let her go to someone else’s house. What will you do then?” Father would laugh and reply, “Why should I have to let her go? I will never marry off my daughter. She’ll always stay with me. Who’s to stop me?” In father’s eyes, no girl as beautiful as his doll had ever been born on earth. He would gaze at Putol with enchanted eyes. Forgetting everything else in the world, he would spend the entire day absorbed in Putol. When she was six months old, he would take Putol to the office with him, laying her on his desk while he worked. Putol’s mother was a very calm, refined lady who taught Bengali at a college. Father worked at the Social Services Department. After Putol’s birth, unless there was urgent work, father never came home late from the office. If he was even a little delayed any day, little Putol would lie in her mother’s lap without sleeping, her magical eyes wide open. The moment she saw father, she would clap her hands in delight and giggle with laughter. She would stretch her chubby little arms toward father from her mother’s lap, wanting to be held. Taking her in his arms, whenever father looked at those little hands and thought that one day henna would color these hands, tears would roll down his cheeks. Mother would say, “Why have you become such a child after having a daughter?” Father would reply, “My mother has come to my home—of course I’ll become a child.”
From her earliest days, Putul was the most cherished treasure of the entire family. Everyone lavished her with affection. Under such overwhelming love, Putul was growing up with fierce stubbornness and defiance. She became more spirited and quick-tempered than any boy, growing wilder by the day. The whole family lived in terror of Putul’s tears and tantrums. No one ever dared say anything to her. Through such excessive love and indulgence, this notion took firm root in little Putul’s mind: whatever she said was right, whatever she wanted had to be given to her immediately, no matter where it came from—it simply had to be provided. Once her tonsils swelled and she stopped eating, and immediately her father too angrily stopped eating in solidarity. No one could get him to eat anything. He would just sit by his daughter’s side and weep. He called the doctor several times an hour, driving everyone to distraction. When she was four and they went to enroll her in school, she threw a tantrum—she absolutely refused to be admitted to nursery, she would only join Class One, because nursery was for babies, and she was no baby. The school teachers were completely unwilling to admit her directly to Class One. But her father declared firmly, “Whatever my daughter says must be done.” He was a high-ranking government official with good connections in higher circles, helping various people secure school grants through his phone calls. Everyone in the area held him in considerable respect. “My daughter can certainly manage it. Admit her to Class One. If she can’t handle it, I’ll deal with it.” Right in front of Putul, he told the headmistress, “Listen, if my daughter does anything wrong, you mustn’t say anything to her. Tell me, and I’ll discipline her myself.” Every morning, her father would get Putul ready and have her at school by eight, then rush to his office by nine. When her friends saw her silky hair done up in a bun, they would ask, “Wow! How beautiful! Who did this for you?” She would light up with joy. Swaying proudly, she would say, “My papa!”
She would come home from school and fill the entire house with her running and playing. No one had ever raised their voice at her, not even once. When she broke her toys, Father would buy her new ones. Dolls were scattered throughout the house. She was surrounded by a kingdom of dolls! In her doll games, Father would dress up as a wedding procession for the dolls’ marriage. He would pretend to be a horse and carry the doll around the house on horseback as soon as he returned from the office. Even when he had office work to do, he would sit her on his lap while working. Sitting in Father’s lap, she would ask him all sorts of strange and wonderful questions about her doll kingdom. She believed her father was the wisest person in the world. “Papa, why is today’s sky so blue? Why does the butterfly fly? Does God really hear all my prayers? When will I grow up? When I’m big, will I be like you or like Mama? Will I become very tall one day, Papa? What will happen if I don’t study?” In the evenings when the evening lamp was lit, the little doll would sit beside Mother, joining her voice with Mother’s to sing the evening prayer songs. Father would sit a little distance away, watching and smiling. Tears would flow down his cheeks—tears of dreams and joy. “O God, even if it costs me my own life, keep my daughter this happy and cheerful throughout her life.” This prayer would emerge from Father’s heart. Wishing for his daughter’s well-being, Father would light a lamp of blessing every evening. Seeing her mischief morning and night, he would think, “How could I live without her?” When she felt like studying, he would sit down to teach her; when she didn’t, that day was a holiday. This is how she was growing up. Father’s world had become filled with dolls. Sometimes when her heart grew melancholy, she would rest her head against the green grille of the window and gaze steadily at the night garden. Moonlight played with the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine, kamini, and kadam flowers. In the moonlight, the lake beside the garden would instantly become like a vast plate. In the doll’s own world, Father was the only person who understood her even a little. On such nights of sadness, Father would come stand beside her, stroking her head and playing melodies on his violin. After a while, she would fall asleep with her head resting in Father’s lap.
Father had taught her to read poetry, introduced her to Uttam-Suchitra films. Even after reaching class nine, she would pester her father like a kingdom’s worth of demands. Buy me this, buy me that. Despite her mother’s stern objections, father bought her an expensive mobile phone at his little doll’s insistence. Being incredibly beautiful, boys from all over would call her. Sometimes she would chat with some of them through the night. Along with Facebook, Viber, Imo, WhatsApp—all of it was there. She didn’t study properly. She’d wander around wearing new dress after new dress, read storybooks and watch movies all day, spending ages on her beauty routine. At school she’d strut around with all the girls however she pleased. She knew no one would dare say anything to her. On holidays, father would take her away from the city to distant villages by the river, to the hills. Father and daughter would sing together in harmony. Seeing this, mother would say, “Oh God, may my precious one remain this precious all her life.” Putul had thick black hair that cascaded to her waist. Father had taught her to braid it. Right after marriage, he had learned various braiding styles from Putul’s mother. He used to braid those same styles for Putul’s mother, now he does them for his daughter. Seeing the wonderful artistry of Putul’s braids, her friends would say, “Oh! If only your father were mine!” Hearing this, Putul would say, “Eh! Never!” He would carefully apply kohl to Putul’s eyes with great care. Putul could never spend even one night at any relative’s house. Father would become restless and go fetch her home himself. Whenever she had fever, he would stay awake night after night, placing wet cloths on her forehead.
At birth, Putol had grasped her father’s left thumb with her tiny hand. Seeing that moment filled her father with such joy! Holding her close to his chest, he told his wife, “This is how I’ll protect my daughter with my heart for her entire life.” Her father often called Putol “Khukumoni”—his little darling. Putol had learned to play the harmonica from her father and could draw beautiful melodies from the violin as well. Like any girl, her father was Putol’s first love. She had never seen a man more handsome or charming than him. Deep in her heart, she searched for someone just like her father in her own life. Her father would tell Putol: “Learn to dream of touching the rainbow, but also learn which path to take, when and how and why to return home again. You’ll have the whole world in your own way, but remember this—no one else will ever have you the way I do. You’ll remain my little girl forever. You must never grow up! I’ll grow old, but you’ll stay just this small forever, my child. For just one smile from you, I could give up my life. Never cause me such pain that I’d have to bow my head before anyone, even for a moment, because of you.” Putol understood some of these words, others she didn’t. Her father would speak very slowly, a gentle smile spreading across his face, and teenage Putol would rest her cheek in her hand and listen to her father’s words while gazing at that face. When she fell asleep, he would come close to her ear and whisper, “Sleep, my child. I love this precious daughter of mine so very much.” Sometimes her father would think, “One day a prince will come and ask for my Khukumoni. I’ll only give her to someone who will complete her life with love. Someone with poetry in his heart, safety in his arms, the fire of a lion in his eyes. He must be a good man in every sense. I’ll only marry my daughter to someone who can love her the way I do.” Lost in these thoughts, her father would remember that day when Putol first took his hand and pulled him up to the roof, and with joy dancing in the corners of her eyes, feeling it with her entire body and soul, she said, “Baba, look, look how beautiful the moon is!” That day her father had thought, “Is my Putol growing up then? One day she’ll take some boy’s hand and lead him to the riverbank to show him the moon. Bathing in the moon’s soft light, she’ll suddenly say, ‘I love you!’” Thinking these thoughts, two drops of tears rolled from her father’s eyes onto sleeping Putol’s rosy cheek. Her father felt a strong urge to tell Putol fairy tales like in her childhood. Gazing at her enchanting face, he couldn’t bear to think that her days of listening to fairy tales were over. Nothing in this world is stronger than a father’s love. With that loving bond, her father would protect Putol from all dangers. Her father remembered how after Putol learned to walk, she would put on his big shoes and toddle around the house with loud thumps, and when she was in class seven, as her father left for office, she would stand on her toes on his shoes, give him a kiss on the forehead, and say, “Stay well, Baba. Remember to eat lunch.”
“Come back quickly.” Father thought, “No one in this world has ever received such a beautiful kiss.” Even if nothing else mattered, one could live for just such a sweet kiss! Bipin Babu’s desire to live suddenly intensified.
Father’s little doll one day crossed the boundaries of the girls’ school and entered the coeducational college. Until then, Putul had discovered the subtle matters of love and romance only in books, songs, and celluloid reels. That same girl fell in love with a Christian boy in her first year of intermediate studies. Introduction on Facebook, chatting, phone conversations, meetings, and then the tumultuous, intense love that churns a teenage heart! The boy was John, lived in Dhaka, studying in his third year at Bangladesh Medical College. John would come to Jessore almost every weekend just for Putul. They would spend entire days together wandering around Jessore’s outskirts—Narail, Magura, Jhenaidah—fearful that someone might see them, that they’d be caught. At home, they knew Sir was conducting marathon classes, taking model tests, that Putul was doing group studies with her classmates, and sometimes they knew she had gone to visit a friend’s house. Storms began raging everywhere inside and outside Putul. A completely new world of sensation. The entire world seemed to turn colorful. In the hues of love, she began finding herself in every moment. Her love presented itself as a truth greater than the entire world. The girl who until school had dismissed every boy with a flick of her finger now couldn’t stay even a moment without talking to John. Her studies went to the winds. One day, while returning from Narail in the evening, one of Putul’s father’s colleagues saw them in an intimate state on the bus. He informed Putul’s father about the matter. Father had already noticed some changes in Putul’s behavior and way of speaking. When he asked Putul’s mother about it, she couldn’t say much. Then he sought to know from Putul, “My dear, has something happened to you? Tell me, my child.” For the first time in her life, Putul lied to her father. Love expertly teaches Putuls to lie. Father didn’t think much about it. He simply assumed, “Girls of that age sometimes behave like this. It’ll get better.” After hearing from his colleague, he investigated and discovered that Putul never went to study on Fridays and Saturdays, didn’t properly take any model tests, had told the family she was taking private lessons from five teachers but was actually studying with only three, and wasn’t even attending those classes properly. She was also irregularly regular at college. Through one of Putul’s mother’s favorite students, whom they used to keep watch over Putul, they learned that Putul indeed went out with a boy to various places almost every week. The boy had cleverly learned John’s identity. After knowing the entire matter, Putul’s father was mentally devastated. He simply couldn’t accept this. The girl he trusted more than the entire world was now regularly telling lies. She was taking money from father each month for teachers’ fees and spending that money on romance. Putul’s family was among the most aristocratic Hindu families in Jessore. Bipin Babu would accept death if necessary, but would never under any circumstances arrange his daughter’s marriage with a Christian boy. This isn’t possible in our social system. One evening, going to Putul’s room and speaking various things with much affection, he once again asked whether she had fallen in love with anyone. Putul very sweetly and cleverly denied the matter. When father saw that nothing was working, he directly asked, “Who is John? What is your relationship with him?” Putul lowered her head and said in a quiet voice, “Baba, I love him.” “Forget him, my dear, any relationship between you two is impossible.” “Why, Baba? He’s a very good boy.” “He may be. But he’s Christian. This doesn’t happen in our society.”
“Don’t make me small in everyone’s eyes, Ma.” “Why? Aren’t Christians human beings? I can’t live without him, Baba. You all must accept him. I can do anything for him.” Putul spoke these words in an unwavering, firm voice. When Baba saw that his daughter could not be made to understand by any means, he spoke in a somewhat threatening tone: “In this world, my honor comes before everything else. I have never bowed my head to anyone in my life. No one has ever dared to look me in the eye and say anything. I cannot become small in everyone’s eyes for your sake. Leave that boy, or I’ll get you married off. You won’t need your studies!” Having said this much, Bipin Babu quickly left his daughter’s room. He thought the girl would surely change her decision. For her father’s happiness, Putul could do anything. She would never let her father become small in anyone’s eyes.
“My daughter won’t listen to me—this is impossible!” He refused to believe that any other boy in the world could understand Putul better than him, could love her more.
Putul had been quite a good student. She’d won two government scholarships in the talent pool, got a golden A+ in her SSC. Her father dreamed his daughter would grow up to become an engineer. That same father would marry Putul off—this was something Putul could never bring herself to believe. She told her mother, “Go ahead and marry me off if you want. But I’ll never be able to leave John.” Hearing about his daughter’s stubbornness from his wife, he actually began asking her uncles and maternal uncles to look for a suitable boy for Putul. Hearing all this, Putul’s boyfriend John said, “Come to Dhaka. Live with me. We’ll get married. What do you say? Can’t you do it?” No teenage girl has the sense to say “no” to such a proposal from her beloved. The next day, when her father was at the office and her mother at college, Putul secretly packed some clothes in a bag, took necessary belongings and ten thousand taka from the wardrobe, locked the door from outside, and left for Dhaka without telling anyone. In that moment, her father’s face didn’t cross her mind even once. Her mother’s loving words didn’t occur to her at all. Before her then was only John’s face, the colorful dream of living together with her beloved for the rest of her life. Excessive love and infatuation for someone can sometimes make one forget even blood relations. The human brain is truly strange. Here, with the arrival of new love, old love fades in an instant. A lover’s love appears far greater than the love of parents. But why? Because human attraction to the new is intense? While parental love is largely emotional, romantic love is both emotional and physical. This could be one reason.
Putul went to Dhaka and moved into John’s mess. She called her father. Told him she was firm in her decision. Her father said, “Come back home, my dear. Do you love that boy more than you love me? If you leave, my dear, I won’t be able to live.” “I love John much, much more. You’ve always kept me in the palm of your hand since I was little. How much longer? I’m not a child anymore. I will come back, but only if you accept John.” For quite some time after this, he tried to reason with his daughter in various ways, tried to find out where she was staying in Dhaka, but nothing worked. At one point, Putul started speaking to her father in a loud, harsh tone, something she had never done before. In anger and irritation, Putul hung up the phone, leaving Bipin Babu crying like a child. After that, Putul’s mother called her repeatedly but could never reach her again. While Putul’s parents were beating their heads in despair and sobbing quietly, at that very moment Putul was lost in ethereal dream-happiness with John. Compared to love, even the death of parents means nothing. And here Putul’s parents were just crying for no real reason. If you’re a parent, you have to cry a little like that. Putul had her own life. Where was the time to care about all those traditional ideas? What was the point of tolerating the pointless emotions and melodrama of those who didn’t value her decisions?
Putol
Three days after leaving home, Bipin Babu had a stroke, and four days later he died at Jessore Medical College. Consciousness had returned just minutes before his death. He gestured for Putol’s mother to come close and, with great difficulty, spoke haltingly: “Supriya, my daughter is very childlike, prone to sulking. She doesn’t understand anything. She has no worldly wisdom, little tolerance—I worry so much about her. My mother is foolish like me, doesn’t know the ways of the world, believes whatever anyone tells her. You must protect her from all dangers and troubles. My mother is still so young, she left in anger with her son. I know my mother will come back to me, she will. Never cause my mother any pain, Supriya. Keep her close to your heart if anything happens to me! If nothing else, I’ll go to Dhaka myself and bring her back after talking sense into her. I miss seeing her so much, I want to hold her, my mother…” He couldn’t say anything more. He was gone.
The next day was Bipin Babu’s 43rd birthday. On his previous birthday, Putol had thrown her arms around her father’s neck and said, “Baba, on your next birthday I’ll buy you 43 roses, how’s that?”
Yes, Baba died. After her only son’s death, the sulking daughter returned home and called out to her father desperately, screaming and crying, saying, “Baba, I’m here, look at me! Get up, Baba! How long will you sleep? Get up, Baba! Get up!” Then she began wailing loudly, embracing her father and covering his face with kisses. “Baba, where have you gone? Baba! I will never leave you and go anywhere again. I promise! I’ll stay by your side all my life. Baba, say something, Baba…!!!”
At that very moment, from some nearby house came the voice of Santosh Sengupta singing: “Those whom you never garlanded in life, why do you come to offer flowers in death…” The relatives pulled Putol away. The body had to be cremated—it was getting late.
Days
passed. Everyone knew that Putul was responsible for her father’s death. But no one dared to say anything, because her mother protected her. This had been Putul’s father’s final wish! Even after death, Bipin Babu continued to shelter Putul with his shadow at every moment. “My dear, I miss seeing you so much. It’s been so long since I fed you with my own hands. Are you eating properly now? What do you do when you feel sad? Do you still fight with your mother? Your mother is very good, you know. I couldn’t do anything for you. Please forgive this old man, my dear! Don’t worry about anything—just close your eyes and you’ll see me. I’m always with you. Just be well, that’s all I want, my child.” Almost every night, her father would come in dreams. It had been a long time now, and Putul couldn’t sleep properly. Gradually, Putul became mentally ill. She developed hypertension. No one let her visit her father’s mausoleum—whenever she went there, she would become hysterical and couldn’t be controlled. She kept thinking to herself that her father would return any moment! She would go to her father’s empty room to see if he was lying on the bed. No one said anymore, “Oh my! Is that my precious daughter? Come here, dear, sit down.” Both medicine and care continued, along with her mother’s devoted attention. She recovered somewhat, took her HSC exams, and barely passed with an ‘A’ grade. John would call occasionally. He never asked about anyone else in the household—he only called to check on Putul. After her husband’s death, Supriya Devi had fallen completely silent. She quit her college job, stopped talking to anyone, and would just quietly go about her household tasks. One day during this time, Putul told her mother, “I was with John, that’s true. But I didn’t marry him against your wishes. However, I will marry him.” Her mother offered no resistance and accepted it. With detachment, she simply said, “Do as you wish!”
Meanwhile, Putul was trying somewhat to study for university admission tests, hoping to get into any university. Nothing would stick in her head while studying, but with her father’s blessings, she managed to get into Dhaka University. She ranked 214th on the merit list, Unit C. Her interview date was set, and she was preparing for it. Just then, John called and said, “Since you’re coming to Dhaka anyway, why don’t we get married? What do you say?” Putul thought, “What’s wrong with that? And Mother has already given her permission. I’m not marrying John against the family’s wishes!” Aloud, she said, “All right.”
A couple of days before coming to Dhaka, a phone call came in. “Putul, this is Megha. We met in Dhaka New Market. Some Friday evening. Jon, you and I had fuchka together. Remember?” Putul knew Megha—had seen her on Facebook under the name Megha Hasan, commenting on Jon’s statuses. She’d met her through Jon. She was Jon’s batch mate, studying at City Dental College. Megha was Jon’s best friend, and Putul knew she loved Jon deeply, but Jon only loved Putul—his relationship with Megha was just friendship.
“Yes, apu. How are you?” “I’m fine! I heard you two are getting married. Good news. Has Jon ever told you that he’s made me have one abortion and one MR so far? Yes, he himself decided to kill his own children, twice in a row. I have all the proof. I can show you if you want.” Hearing this, Putul screamed, “Ugh, Megha apu, ugh! Don’t you love him? How can someone say such awful things about the person they love? Love has made you blind. You’re mentally ill! Ugh, apu!” Saying this, she cut the call and blacklisted Megha. Immediately, Putul called Jon. “Come on, don’t you see? Megha’s crazy! Hearing that I’m marrying you has made her even crazier. Jealousy, don’t you understand? Women’s jealousy!” Something made Putul tell her mother about this. Mother said, “It might be a lie, but shouldn’t you look into it once?” “Oh please! Drop it, Ma! It’s just women’s jealousy! Megha can’t stand our happiness.” Though she said this out loud, her mother’s words kept gnawing at her mind somehow. Dr. Abdul Haque, Associate Professor at Bangladesh Medical, was from Jessore, his house right next to Putul’s. He knew Putul’s father, had visited their home several times, and was very fond of Putul. On some impulse, Putul sent the sir a message on Facebook.
“Uncle, greetings. I hope you and everyone at home are well. I’m bothering you about something. If father were alive, perhaps he would have asked you. I love your student Jon. Jon loves me deeply too. With mother’s consent, we’ve decided to get married. A friend of Jon’s named Megha called me and said terrible things about Jon. Mother is very tense about this, so feeling quite helpless, I’m writing to you. Take care.”
The reply came before evening.
Dear Putul dear,
I don’t know how much of what you’ve heard. But yes, a lot has happened. Many of my students in the dormitory have found them in inappropriate situations at various times. After complaints reached me, I called Jon in. Later, when I informed the Director sir about the whole matter in his room, we ordered Jon to leave both the dormitory and the medical college.
I wish you and your mother well.
Your Haque uncle
Reply
Putuli broke into uncontrollable sobs after reading. “I left home for this boy? I killed Papa for such a despicable person?” Putuli inquired further among John’s various friends. Everyone told the same story. John had done such things with several other women too. When she called John and questioned him, he first denied everything, then after more thorough questioning with various references, he said, “Yes, maybe something like that happened, but Megha practically forced me into it. I’m not at fault in any of this. But yes, it’s true that I made a mistake in a moment of infatuation. I have no such infatuation now. I loved only you, love you, and will love you. I love you, Putuli.” Putuli also said “I love you too” and hung up the phone.
And now Putuli completely lost her mental balance. Her university viva date passed. She couldn’t recover even after a year. “I’m a murderer, I killed Papa myself. Whatever anyone else says or doesn’t say, I know—I’m the killer. Did I love John more than Papa? Disgusting!” For some reason, her mother took Putuli’s documents and enrolled her in the degree program at the college where she taught. Putuli spent the next 3-4 years in the darkness of her room. Only her mother kept her alive. In this way, she was fulfilling her husband’s last wish every single moment. For four years, every evening, Mother would sit before Putuli and read aloud from her college textbooks. She would say, “Listen, you don’t need to study. I’ll read, and you just listen carefully. Alright?” Putuli would simply nod and say, “Yes.” Staying up nights, she would prepare suggestions herself, note down answers to those questions, and read them over and over in front of Putuli. Sometimes she would say, “Ma, listen, just glance through this question once!” Putuli would mechanically glance through it. This was how Putuli’s studies continued. When Mother would doze off while reading, looking at her mother’s face, Putuli would sometimes think, “No one else can read so beautifully. Ma is so beautiful to look at! I never noticed before!” When exams began, Mother would forget to eat or drink for 3-4 days before each exam during the holidays, sitting before Putuli and explaining the next exam’s material over and over again. Sitting outside the exam hall, she would keep praying to Krishna, “Lord, please be kind, let me fulfill his last wish. Let her become a great person like her father.” Bipin Babu must have been watching all this from above, smiling and thinking to himself, “Supriya, you’ll see, my little princess will become very accomplished and make your head high before everyone.”
And so it was that Father’s little girl one day graduated with a first-class degree. When Mother brought home the results, she embraced Putul and wept, saying, “My child, your father is happier today than he’s been in a very long time. I’m managing to fulfill his wishes, and I’ll keep doing so as long as there’s a drop of blood left in my veins! There’s still more work to be done. Now get a little healthier, my dear, go out into the world, see it, live a little, learn to live. Even though you got the chance, fate’s cruelty prevented you from pursuing honors. I’ve made inquiries—you can do your master’s in the same subject at Rajshahi University. Your aunt lives there. You won’t have any problems at all, my child. If necessary, I’ll even move to Rajshahi with you. You’ll get in, I know it.” Yes, Putul got in. She became much healthier than before. She studied, performed well in her semesters too, but her cursed luck wouldn’t leave her alone. The department head, Habibur Rahman sir, who was nearly twice Putul’s age, came to her and said, “Putul, I’ve fallen in love with you! I want to marry you.” The gentleman had been divorced twice before. When Putul paid him no attention, despite having a first class in her previous exams, she had to complete her MSS with a second class first in the finals. Once again disappointed, she simply smiled. For someone from whom life had taken so much, this small loss meant nothing.
After finishing her master’s, she returned to Jessore again. Mother bowed before the large framed photograph of her father and said, “You can see how grown up your daughter has become! Just as you asked, I’ve kept her safe all this time, and I promise I’ll keep protecting her for the rest of my life. Until my dying breath, I’ll watch over your Putul, I give you my word.” Putul was sitting on the bed then, eating pickled olives. Suddenly, some thoughts entered her mind.
“Tell me, did Ma really love Baba, or was it just respect? What had my father given her while he was alive, except for one child? I never once saw Baba take Ma out anywhere. He never fed her a single morsel with his own hands. When Baba would take me in his lap and feed me, Ma would always keep gazing at his face—I saw this. Why did Baba never try to understand what this meant? Did he ever sit beside Ma and chat with her? I can’t remember! All the money Baba earned his whole life, he spent lavishly with both hands! Did Ma ever receive even a quarter of the love he showered on me? He never raised a hand against her, never scolded her, but he neglected her in every possible way. When I was in Class Six, he took me to see the Taj Mahal, but he didn’t take Ma along.
Among her siblings, Ma was the youngest. She grew up pampered and adored from childhood. When her brothers would say, ‘Come stay with us, let your husband keep his darling,’ Ma would get furious and stop speaking to them altogether. But what did she get in return from Baba? Could Baba ever truly love Ma? Or was it all just the habit of living together? Baba loved me like a madman. And Ma’s entire world revolved around me and Baba. But how much space did Ma occupy in Baba’s own world?
When Ma became a widow, she was only thirty-seven. Everyone told her to remarry. Even I urged her repeatedly. She wouldn’t listen to anyone. She scolded everyone away. She nearly went mad with grief over Baba’s death. She quit her college job and started tailoring, while her brothers sent some money each month. The in-laws never even came to check on us. They were afraid that if they called, Ma might ask for money. When there’s no father in a family, everyone pushes that family away, and it becomes terribly alone. When a husband dies leaving his wife with the responsibility of children, that wife must become impossibly brave and strong. A mother has to survive somehow for her child’s sake. The battle where death is not an option—that’s the hardest battle in the world.
She raised me through tremendous hardship, protecting me with everything she had, just as Baba would have wanted. But what did she get for herself? I can’t even say she received much love from me. After I left for Rajshahi, it was mostly Ma who called every day. I hardly ever remembered to think of her, yet I was all that existed in Ma’s entire world. Can love take such a strange form?”
As these thoughts swirled through her mind, tears began to well up in the corners of Putul’s eyes. In that moment, she made her decision—no matter what it took, she would spend the rest of her life serving her mother. Whatever her mother asked of her, she would do. Even if it cost her life, she would make her mother happy. Her mother had never received anything in life, only given. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t fair. One day, in casual conversation, she asked her mother,
“Tell me, Ma, Baba used to say my daughter will be an engineer. Did you want that too? Didn’t you have any wishes of your own?” “What wishes could I have, dear! Your father’s wishes were my wishes.” “Still, Ma! Didn’t you have your own plans for your child’s future?” “I had one, but your father didn’t want it. So I stopped mentioning it. Leave it be!” “Tell me, Ma, what was it? Please tell me!” “Listen, dear, when I came to your father’s house, I was in my third year at university. After marriage, he taught me in his own way. Your father’s dream was that I would take the BCS exam and become a magistrate. That’s exactly how I was preparing, right from after the wedding. Not for myself, dear, but for your father—I wanted to become a magistrate for his sake. Your father was such a good man, dear. You can’t ignore the words of such a good person. Right after my honors exam, I took the BCS with just my appeared certificate. You were still in my womb then. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t fulfill your father’s dream, dear. I didn’t make it to administration, became a college lecturer instead. I desperately wanted my daughter to become what I couldn’t! But I never told anyone else about this, only your father. Dear, I don’t know what’s written in your fate. The man left without seeing anything, giving everyone the slip in his resentment!……” She couldn’t continue. Having said this much, Ma removed her glasses and began wiping her eyes with the edge of her white sari.
It’s been nine years since Putul last visited her father’s mausoleum. Now she has only one wish—after becoming a magistrate, to hold her mother close and sit before her father’s tomb, just once, and cry her heart out; so much suppressed grief has accumulated in her chest. From now on, she will live only for her mother. Perhaps then the burden of old sins might lighten, even if just a little…………